


It Was Only In The Theatre That I Lived

by Batsymomma11



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Dean Needs A Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 00:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Dean didn't grow up with a rosy childhood. Or adolescence. Hell, even being an adult didn't seem to save him any nightmares either. Nothing in his life had been simple or easy or fairytale. But some old haunts are even too big for a Winchester to handle alone. Sometimes Dean requires angelic assistance.





	It Was Only In The Theatre That I Lived

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Supernatural or its characters. I do own this little story.   
* Title taken from an Oscar Wilde quote
> 
> Thank you for reading and enjoy!
> 
> For those of you who might read my other work, especially the open longer works, I apologize for the long absence. I've been rearranging my life entirely. I'll update and write when I can. Thanks!

“Dean—what are you doing in here?”

Dean blinked up through the dust moats, through the ribbons of sunlight that were highlighting only a quarter of the empty stage and frowned at the intruder. He’d come here to be alone. Not to see _him. _

Especially not _now_.

“Go back to the room, Cas.”

“Dean—”

“I wanna be alone.”

Castiel tipped his head, the perfect image of an innocent pup confused by its owner’s command and Dean dragged his gaze away. Forced it back to the empty stage where floorboards were coming up and rot had set in. Where the rats were making their home and there was hardly a trace left of what this place used to be. If he squinted, Dean could remember the scent of moth-eaten carpeting and cheap perfume. He could close his eyes and hear the roar of a packed house, imagine painted faces and feathery costumes.

He’d only ever been once. Back when Fairfield Theatre was something of a Saturday night destination in this tiny demon-infested town.

Back in the day, Dean had snuck out after Sammy fell asleep at the motel to see Macbeth play out in brilliant 3D. It had been one of those moments that Dean kept to himself. He’d been thirteen, young and bitter already, but that night, watching those actors—he’d felt like a kid again. Like a kid who could imagine and dream and—escape. He’d felt like he was escaping into someone else’s horror story for once. It was easily one of the best memories Dean had of his awkward pre-pubescent years.

When the play ended, Dean had walked back much slower than he should have. It was January and just on the wrong side of cold, but burrowed in his leather jacket, it felt just fine. Dad had been gone for six days straight. He’d not called but Dean wasn’t expecting him to. Despite the fact that it was his birthday. Birthdays didn’t mean much in the house of Winchester, so he’d not been expecting anything. Dad wouldn’t even remember he was turning thirteen anyway, that much Dean was certain of. Besides thirteen was hardly a big deal. He already looked older than he was, and Dean liked it that way.

He got away with more.

Like sneaking off to take in a play on a Friday night. All alone.

Dean never told Sammy about that night. He kept the theatre and that one sacred untainted memory to himself. In fifteen years, they’d not been back to Roanoke, North Carolina. He’d always told himself that if they were ever in the neighborhood again, he’d see another play. He’d disappear for a while and let his mind wrap around someone else’s problems. Like before.

But it never happened. And the Fairfield Theatre was a shabby relic of a past that no longer really mattered.

“Why are you in this place?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’d like to, Dean,” Castiel murmured, his eyes flickering over the broken seats and plaster strewn carpeting. Something was dripping like a B-rated horror movie in the background, highlighting just how unsound the bones of the building had become. “You were upset.”

“No, I was mad.”

“Are they not the same?”

“No,” Dean shook his head, biting his lip as he gripped his knees ‘til they ached under the pressure, “they aren’t.”

“Alright,” Castiel took a seat next to Dean, clearly working to ignore the godawful screech the metal made beneath his weight when he did so. “I can see this place is important to you. Old memories?”

“Memory. Just one.”

Cas lifted a brow, “Will you tell me about it?”

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does. Else you would not be here—hiding in this extremely unstable structure from me.”

“I’m not hiding,” Dean snapped, turning to face Castiel, “I needed a minute to breathe. Alright? It’s a pretty normal friggin thing to do. Sue me.”

“Sue you? Why would I do that?”

They stared at each for a moment and Dean was almost tempted to smile. Almost.

“Forget it,” Dean dragged a hand down his face.

“I apologize.”

“Cas—just—look I came here to clear my head. I’m not trying to be an asshole but if you stick around right now, that is exactly what I’m going to be.”

“Today is your birthday. Isn’t it customary to ‘stick around’ the people you love on your birthday?”

“Birthdays don’t mean anything.”

Castiel’s brows drew low on his forehead, a hand reaching cautiously forward to rest on one of Dean’s knees. “They why are you so unhappy?”

“I don’t—”

Castiel pursed his lips, running his thumb back and forth over that knee he’d taken captive, “Tell me.”

“I don’t like my birthday, Cas. It’s not a good day for me.”

“Why?”

For a moment, Dean was tempted to leave.

He didn’t talk about that night at this theatre for a reason. It brought back a particularly ugly memory that had nothing really to do with mothballs or Macbeth. It wasn’t bright or shiny or good. Nor was it something you would want to retell at family brunch. It was one of the first times he could remember really being afraid. Really, really afraid.

January 24, 1992, was the best day. And the worst. 

Because of what happened after he got back to the hotel and found Dad waiting there for him.

Dean saw the Impala sitting like wet obsidian beneath the parking lot lights before he even got within a hundred feet of the room. He’d stopped, frozen mid-step as he stared at the car, unsure of his next move.

Dad made it for him.

He was waiting at the car, leaning with his rump on the trunk, arms folded like thick branches over his middle with a scowl as dark the sky overhead. Dean couldn’t recall ever being as scared as he was just then. Not even when he’d dropped his stake during a hunt in a vamp nest.

Maybe he knew what was coming. Maybe not. Dean couldn’t remember for sure.

It wasn’t the first time Dean had been told to grab ass and take it like a man. He’d become intimately acquainted with Dad’s belt at an early age and Dad didn’t hold back. At least, not with Dean. Dean was the older brother, the responsible brother, and he needed to learn his lessons a bit more forcefully than Sammy.

_ “Where were you, Dean?”_

_ Dean stood stiffly out of grabbing distance, his heart hammering into his ribs at such a fast clip, he felt lightheaded. It had to be near midnight. Nobody was around. No one would hear him put up a fuss. Not that Dad really cared if a fuss was put up. Hell, Dad was a lot stronger than Dean and probably always would be. If Dad wanted to do something, he would. _

_ “I was only gone a couple hours.”_

_ “You left Sammy alone.”_

_ “I locked the place up tight and I—I salted everything. It’s safe, Dad. I swear.”_

_ “Dean,” Dad looked more haggard than usual and twice as angry. Gooseflesh erupted over Dean’s frame when Dad dropped his arms and straightened off the trunk. “Where were you? Answer me now, son.”_

_ “I—” Dean forced his gaze to the wet asphalt and swallowed thickly, “A play.”_

_ “A play.”_

_ “Yeah. Fairfield Theatre was showing Macbeth and I’ve never seen a live—”_

_ “A play?” Dad’s voice sounded tight like he was struggling to reign in his temper and Dean shrank further, his shoulders curving in to make himself look smaller. It wasn’t a conscious decision. But something he did out of habit when Dad got like this. Dean didn’t think it helped much. _

_ “Yes, sir.”_

_ “Are you ever allowed to leave your brother alone? Ever?”_

_ “No.”_

_ “No, what?”_

_ Dean felt the backs of his eyes burn and his throat go tight. Shame washed over him hotly and he couldn’t bring himself to look back up and see the disappointment in his dad’s eyes. “No, sir.”_

_ “Go inside and wait for me in the bathroom.”_

_ “But—” Dean’s gaze jerked to Dad’s, his stomach bottoming out, “But Sammy is in there and I—”_

_ “Bathroom. Now.”_

_ It was different this time. Dean wasn’t sure what exactly was different about it, except—well, except when he got into the bathroom and saw the stark white of all that porcelain shining back at him, he started to panic. Dad came in a few seconds later, already tugging his belt out of the loops of his jeans and Dean started shaking. _

_ Dad had been drinking. He could smell it—now that they were in a smaller space. It explained why Dad’s eyes were bloodshot and his face was so damn red. But Dad had never done this when he was drunk. _

_ And Dean was scared of how that might change things. _

_ “Get your hands on the counter, Dean.”_

_ “Dad—”_

_ “If you put a hand in the way, I won’t hold back. You hear me? I’ll hit your hands.”_

_ Dean nodded weakly, gripping onto the cheap linoleum till his knuckles went white and his fingertips numb. Dad never did any buildup. Which was nice, to some degree. But Dean always wondered if it would be easier with a count-off. Or—or something. Anything other than the relentless drone of leather on skin, over and over. _

_ The first hit felt like he’d been punched in the ass. The second wasn’t much better. At five, Dean was openly crying, biting his bottom lip so hard to keep quiet he could taste blood. _

_ “Quiet.”_

_ “I’m trying,” Dean whispered, working to breathe through his nose then out through his mouth. It wasn’t really helping. Not really. Nothing was. The strikes kept coming and at some point, Dean lost count. He felt delirious from the pain singing up and down his legs, ass, and low back. When Dad paused, sounding out of breath, Dean slumped to the floor and couldn’t get back up. _

_ “Get up, Dean. I’m not done with you yet.”_

_ “I—I can’t,” Dean’s mouth felt full of cotton and he could feel how close he was to hysteria. Dangerously close. He hurt. He hurt so badly. _

_ “Get up, or I’ll make you get up.”_

_ “I can’t,” Dean said again, the sobs building behind his words getting harder and harder to control. He was hiccupping through each breath, eyes so blurry with tears Dad was only a black blob. _

_ Dad had always been strong to Dean. Larger than life. Like a cartoon character that had no limits. But when Dad’s hand closed over his bicep and hauled him to his toes, he felt nothing short of terror. Instinct took over and all the training that Dad had insisted on, had drilled into Dean, made him a lithe lethal little weapon. _

_ He fought. And he fought hard._

_ Startled, Dad didn’t do much to counterattack at first, probably because he was too stunned that Dean _could _fight after the beating he’d just taken. But after the initial attack, Dean made a mistake. He tried to run. _

_ Dad had locked the bathroom door and Dean plowed into the thin laminate with a cacophonous crack, fingers scrabbling at the door handle, desperation making a high-pitched wail slip out of him that he’d never heard himself make before._

_ In the end, it didn’t matter that he’d managed to get away for a moment. Or that for that one miserable moment, he’d felt powerful. He’d felt—in control and strong. _

_ Dad got to him a second later, holding a hand to his own bloody nose and a fistful of Dean’s hair. With his head wrenched back, Dean stared at Dad, Dad stared back, then one of Dad’s meaty hands met with Dean’s face and everything went dark._

“Where did you go, just now?”

“Huh?” Dean sluggishly pulled himself out of that bathroom where the white was now stained with red and found Castiel still sitting patiently beside him. Still waiting for an answer.

“You went somewhere dark. In your mind.”

Dean blinked, “Yeah.”

“It’s why you’re upset today?”

Dean swallowed thickly, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans. He felt a little sick to his stomach. “Yeah, Cas. It’s why I’m upset. And it’s personal.”

Castiel nodded slowly, “John Winchester beat you as a child.”

Dean flinched, “Cas…Christ.”

“I’m sorry…perhaps I said that with poor finesse. It’s just—you seemed like you needed me to help you say it and you know how badly I miss social cues—even with you—”

“Cas, stop. It’s—fine. It’s good.”

It wasn’t. But Castiel wasn’t to blame for that.

John Winchester was.

“My dad was a hard man.”

“Yes, he was.”

“So, yeah, sometimes he used his belt and lost his temper. Sometimes he went a little too far.”

“And your birthday…”

Dean shrugged a shoulder, feeling like there was a fist around his throat, “On my thirteenth birthday, Dad had too much to drink and I broke a sacred rule. He went a little far.”

Castiel scowled, “How does his drinking excuse him going too far? And how far, is too far?”

“Look, the old man was working all the time, he was exhausted and when he found out that I snuck out without Sammy, he got mad. It was understandable.”

“You—” Cas tipped his head, assessing Dean with a skeptical look, “You are making excuses for him.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Why?”

“Look, Cas, I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed. I came here for the quiet and for a place just to—to get away. To forget. Alright? I don’t want to remember what happened to me on my birthday or that it was one of the worst memories of my dad I’ve got? Okay? That alright with you?”

Castiel’s fingers were biting into Dean’s knee now, his jaw flexing rapidly beneath the skin, “Yes. Yes, that’s fine. I understand.”

“You gonna let go of your Vulcan hold there too, Spock?”

“I uh—yes,” Castiel released Dean’s knee, then nodded sharply, “Forgive me. I didn’t realize I was holding you like that.”

“Happens. To the best of us.”

Castiel’s eyes said that it didn’t. Not in the way that Dean was implying.

It was almost dusk. Shadows were longer and Dean wasn’t able to even make out the back of the stage anymore, but he still felt like it wasn’t time to leave. Not yet. He needed the memories to go back into their corner and be smudged out again by all the locks he usually kept on the door.

It was just taking him longer than normal. That was all.

“Dean?”

Dean closed his eyes, drawing out a weary breath that made his chest ache, “Yeah, Cas?”

“Let me help you.”

“How?”

There was a warm hand on Dean’s knee again, long fingers gentle and coaxing this time. Dean didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move away from the touch that had become familiar and comforting after the handful of years they’d been together. Cas and Dean had become synonymous in the Hunter circles. Wherever Dean went, Cas followed. And vice versa. If anyone had a problem with them being partners in every sense of the word, they were smart enough not to say anything.

In the quiet spaces, when time seemed to slow and the bloodshed faded, that was when Dean wondered what the hell he’d ever done to deserve Castiel. That was when he worried that he was going to wake up one day and realize he’d been trapped inside a mind-bending dream for years on end and that Cas wasn’t real at all.

Dean leaned into Cas’s touch as it roamed up a thigh, a hipbone, then meandered till it wrapped around his neck to draw him into Castiel fully. Castiel always tasted like he’d been chewing wintergreen gum. Like he’d just brushed his teeth. It used to make Dean self-conscious, because he couldn’t taste nearly as good as an angel, but now—he didn’t think twice about reciprocating. He didn’t think at all when Cas’s other hand cupped his jaw and held him even closer.

Castiel kissed Dean like he was something to savor. The decadent chocolate dessert he’d eaten all his veggies to earn. And god, was it hot. Dean melted into Cas, arms winding automatically around his angel as he got pulled into the other’s lap. Their mouths fit like a puzzle and Dean didn’t bother hiding the moan that slipped between their mouths when Cas slipped both hands up his shirt and jerked him closer.

For a brief moment, Dean considered how comfortable it might be to get laid in an old theatre chair. His back would probably complain, along with a few other muscles, but it would probably be worth it.

Probably.

They kissed for a long time in the shadowy dim of the theatre. Long enough that the kissing grew languid and Dean settled his head on Castiel’s shoulder, letting the soothing track of fingers on his spine lull him farther and farther away from porcelain memories and leather belts.

“I have something for you back at the motel. You left before I could give it to you.”

“Oh?” Dean murmured into Cas’ neck, his lips half-brushing, half-kissing the skin there. “Whatcha get me?”

“Something you like.”

“What?”

“Come back to the motel and I’ll show you.”

“Tease,” Dean hummed, settled more firmly onto Castiel’s lap, “What if I want a catnap?”

There was a faint rush of air, followed by the distinct hum of bees in his ears then they weren’t anywhere near theatre seats or stale popcorn. They were back inside the Lucky Eight Motel surrounded by seventies wallpaper and the smell of cherries.

“Cas,” Dean said roughly, gritting his teeth as a wave of nausea fluttered in his stomach, “Don’t just do that. Warn a guy.”

“Sorry. I thought it might be more expedient…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean glanced around the room, sniffing discreetly, “What is that?”

Castiel’s grin was slow and warm. So friggin’ welcome that it made Dean’s heart squeeze hard in his chest. “Your present.”

“I don’t do presents.”

“You do this. Trust me.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Scooting off Castiel’s lap to sit more safely on the mattress. “Show me then, Genie. Make my dreams come true.”

Castiel walked over to the little table in the middle of the room and withdrew a white box tied in ugly snot-green ribbon. “For you,” he said ceremoniously, depositing the package on Dean’s lap with a flourish.

Dean eyed the package dubiously but humored Cas by ooing and awing how he should. A moment later, the ribbon was gone and Dean found out why the whole room smelled like cherries. Castiel had bought him a cherry pie. In the center of the thing, there was a single candle, candy apple red, and it made Dean’s eyes sting so badly he had to look away to make the tears suck back in their proper place.

He was not going to lose it now when he’d made it all day without doing so. He refused to cry.

“You don’t like it?” Castiel’s face fell.

“No,” Dean shook his head, clearing his throat, “I love it, Cas. It’s perfect. You—you’re—” he sniffed delicately, turning his face away to swipe beneath an eye, “You’re perfect, Cas. Thanks.”

“Happy birthday,” Cas said softly, his mouth turning up on one side, the perfect lopsided smile to finish the deal.

Dean looked down at his pie, back up to his angel, and realized, it might very well be the first time it was a happy birthday. And it was all because of Cas.

“Thank you, Cas.”

Castiel grabbed a fork out of the box, stabbed into the middle of the pie, then offered it up to Dean like he was feeding grapes to Dionysus. Dean laughed so hard he did end up crying.

But the pie was worth it.


End file.
